By: KJ Hannah Greenberg

My home was littered with cats. There was Susan, Fluffy, Marigold, Tucker, Arwen, Denny, Nearly Spotted, Tito, Moonshadow, and Larry. Except, Tito had gone missing.

I frowned as I scratched a mosquito bite on my right forearm. My adult daughter had cautioned me to use spray, but I had remained resolute that no chemicals would touch my precious body.

A fortnight after I had articulated that limit, my daughter had eloped with her lover. They moved to Zanzibar, where they meant to establish a dolphin sanctuary as well as to quickly become fluent in Arabic. Accordingly, my most literally palpable memory of my lone child was an ugly, red, prickly bump on my limb.

My most profound memory of Tito, though, was of him as a wee kitten. A neighbor had knocked on my door to hand that 150 gram stray to me for “safekeeping;” locals knew me as a cat lady.

Initially, Tito had to be fed every two hours, sleep on a hot water bottle that was refreshed every four hours and be taught to defecate. Unlike the other residents of my home, he wasn’t sure that he was a cat and, therefore, would hiss at any older feline that tried to comfort him.

His unwillingness to bond with the other moggies didn’t matter; after graduating from the heating pad, he chose to sleep with me. His midnight purrs were soothing.

Interestingly, as he grew, his fur grew in uneven patches. I guessed he was, at least partially, “werewolf cat” since the vet indicated that Tito’s odd coat resulted from a natural mutation, from documented hypotrichia. No matter—like his antisocial behavior with other cats, his absence of heat fur never bothered me a haet. Tito was impossibly kawaii.

His cuteness, though, went missing along with his other qualities when he vanished. At first, I wondered whether, when my human child had secreted Tito in her luggage. To bring him along to her new home, however, she would have needed an import permit from the Tanzanian Ministry of Livestock, a valid rabies certificate, a health certificate from a local animal doctor, and an ISO-compliant microchip. Her hasty bolt from here wouldn’t have enabled her to gather those documents.

Consequently, outside of Tito hiding himself in her backpack, most likely, he had not traveled to the East African archipelago. Meaning, I realized that he might yet be in my neighborhood.

I set out bowls of food and water, which, ultimately, were enjoyed by a local murder of crows. On top of that, I canvased animal shelters in three counties. That effort produced many offers of adoptable cats, but no sign of Tito. I likewise called community veterinary clinics but discovered that only a senior Cockapoo and a slither of Corn Snakes had been surrendered.

Additionally, I paid for ads, which featured Tito’s phot, in local newspapers and posted signs on so many telephone poles. The results were that my savings dipped and that twice I had to repurchase staples.

In the end, what mattered was that I chose to reboot my nervous system by strolling along my community’s ria. There, among rushes, I found Tito, I mean Tita, nursing a litter. What I had assumed was a male body part when I was teaching her to poop, apparently, was a vestigial organ.

My cat wolf actually growled at me when I approached her nest. Her protective instinct outweighed any memories she might have had about our late night cuddles or about the months I spent feeding her first with an eye dropper and then with a small syringe. Fur babies would always prevail over two-footed, i.e., deformed felines.

Later, I returned with a cardboard box lined with an old sheet and with gardening gloves. Somehow, I was able to scoop both Tita and her offspring into my carton.

At home, my defensive queen situated her kindle under my bed, among dust bunnies and stray socks. Occasionally, she’d jump onto my mattress, sniff my face (this activity always occurred before dawn, when I was asleep), purr softly, and leave.

Her young grew. They readily interacted with Susan, Fluffy, Marigold, Tucker, Arwen, Denny, Nearly Spotted, Moonshadow, and Larry. Those kits grasped the nature of their species and acted in view of that understanding.

My sofas bore the brunt of their play. Similarly, my cat-safe indoor plants, e.g., my grasses and roses, verified that kittens were present. What’s more, my double pet store bills evidenced that five more furry bodies have made themselves comfortable in my quarters.

When the little ones were of the correct age, I successfully rehomed all of the toms and one of the two girls. Tita’s other daughter and Tita, herself, remained with my colony.

These days, I’ve considered adopting a genet. Then again, most likely, I’ll continue only to harbor domestic paws; an African carnivore would be difficult to legally claim and might try to eat my cats. I’ll have to suffice with planning on stopping in North Africa to visit those cat-like creatures whenever I’m returning home from trips to my daughter.

Meanwhile, I’ve built a catio and have begun bringing Marigold and Arwen on visits to the local senior community center. Also, Moonshadow has become the mascot of a local scout troop and Larry has been providing solace for my newly widowed neighbor. My life with my clowder suits me.